I'm clearly having a soup craze.  I know this seems nutty on a day when we're supposed to have a high of 73 degrees, however, it is still February, so my soup obsession is at least seasonal, even if the seasons aren't playing along. This all started earlier in the week when, yes, there was snow on the ground.  Better still, I had the great good fortune to luck into a meaty ham bone at the grocery store.  I habitually check to see if they've got one at the deli,  having finished up slicing a spiral ham.   When I find one, I scoop it up and stow it away in the freezer knowing it will find a happy home in something or other before too long.

Who'd a thunk we'd finally have a snow day around here?  Best of all, it's President's Day so lots of folks have the day off and don't have to drive around in it.   They can actually go out and play while it lasts, which, from a quick peak at Mr. Washington's trusty thermometer outside my living room window, won't be too long. The General Assembly soldiers on regardless of things like holidays and snow, so from my perspective, sitting here alone--well Briggs and Eudora Richardson are here with me of course (my black and white furry companions)-- I've really lucked out with perhaps the quintessential snow day lunch for one.

On Friday night,  I was driving home from a very good talk by Ben Campbell at the library and listening to my radio,  when it suddenly started to send out shock waves of  Noel  into the unseasonably warm night air.  With that familiar refrain, I suddenly  realized that it was Twelfth Night.  Because, as I've already alluded, I'm a creature of idiosyncratic culinary habits tied to all sorts of things, certainly including but not limited to the ecclesiastical calendar, I realized with delight that I'd therefore be producing the beloved cauliflower and Stilton soup over the weekend, for around here, Twelfth Night and Stilton soup go hand in hand.   It all goes back to my Christmas obsession with Stilton.  I grew up with a creamy round of Stilton being an integral part of the fabric of the holidays as, I imagine, it is in most English households.  Even before I was old enough to love the musty blue cheese myself, I loved all of the accoutrements that it brought with it.  The monogrammed Stilton "shovel" used to dig the green-veined cheese from the very heart of the round, the little glasses of port that accompanied it, the table water biscuits, the walnuts and the old familiar nut cracker, etched with complicated squiggles, that added the sound of a nice resounding crunch to the festivities.